


living in color

by swishandflickwit



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, acotar ff, acowar spoilers, and all the art in this fandom is SO INSPIRING ITS AMAZING, anyway art is therapy, but i can write i like to think, but overall super happy fic, feyre & cassian brotp, i cant draw for shit, i just want my bbs to be happy, minor smut, post-war AU, so this first part kinda wrote itself, the best kind, tw - panic attacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-01 20:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12712056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swishandflickwit/pseuds/swishandflickwit
Summary: A year following the events of ACOWAR, Feyre tries to build a better world but struggles to cope. How is she supposed to heal the world if she can't even heal herself?Luckily, words are not the only form of expression.Post-war AU in which the Court of Dreams use art as a form of healing.





	1. part i. green & yellow

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ACOTAR fan fic. I hope you enjoy it!

 

>   ** _The world is my canvas and I create my reality. -Unknown_ **

She doesn’t start painting till a year after the war’s end.

The High Lords rarely see eye to eye but despite their differences, peace negotiations finally start to become productive, and Velaris slowly but surely stitches itself back together.

She hasn’t been home in weeks, opting to split her time between the private residence in the Night Court and Vassa’s court in the continent instead of winnowing to the town house at the end of every day. Her obligations as High Lady dictate that she be present for nearly every (if not _all_ ) meetings amongst the seasonal and solar courts. Her vow to help severe the spell that bounds the rebel human queen to transform into a fiery winged creature during the day means that her pursuit as _Cursebreaker_ is never far behind.

The titles have never felt more prominent as they do now, not even during the war—weighing over her shoulders like an anvil along with all the responsibility they bear.

And while she wouldn’t trade her life, her experiences, all of it, for _anything_. . . still, Feyre is hard-pressed to find room in her daily routine to catch a break that even nights with Rhys are spent laying side by side and just _breathing_.

So it’s no surprise that the sight of a paintbrush laying innocently on the sidewalk of the shops that line the Sidra startles her so badly that it stops her in her tracks. She stares at it like it’s a foreign object cause it might as well be, given how long it’s been since she last held such a thing.

Mor doesn’t notice that Feyre is no longer beside her till she’s more than a couple steps away. A small panicked shriek escapes her before she whirls towards the direction they came and she spots her friend hovering in front of an opening of an alley.

“Feyre,” she huffs as she jogs back to her side, “you could at least warn a girl before you drop off like that.”

“Where did this come from?”

The humor falls from Mor’s face at the seriousness in her tone. She frowns.

“It’s a paintbrush.”

Feyre rolls her eyes and gives the blonde a flick on the forehead. “Thanks, genius, I got that.” Mor sticks out her tongue in response. “But what’s it doing here?”

Mor examines the paintbrush, then quickly glances at the alley yawning ahead before the dawn of recognition lights her features.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “They must be moving onto the next phase.”

“The next phase?” Feyre just stares at her in confusion. “The next phase of _what?_ ”

“Well, with all the damage inflicted during the Hybern attack, Velaris has been hard at work restoring the parts of the city that were affected the most. The process has been slow, unused as they are to such things but,” a small but proud smile graces her lips, “it appears they’re at the tail end of their plans, if they’ve already moved on to putting on fresh coats of paint.”

Feyre shakes her head, in admiration of her people but mostly in shame. She had no idea this was still going on, the attack having been a little over a year ago. Had she really been that far from home? For so long?

“Show me.”

Mor, who had been ready to resume their walk, whips her head towards her.

“What?”

“Take me to where the reparations are heaviest.”

“ _Now?_ ”

“I’ll only be a minute.”

Mor looks at her with incredulous eyes. “But Feyre, we’re due to meet with the Palace governors—”

“Please.” She places her hand in Mor’s arm and squeezes. “ _Please._ ”

Mor studies her—eyes the tremble in her hand as she withdraws her touch to the haunted gleam in her gaze—and reads the truth etched into the lines of her gaze.

She nods.

“A minute,” she concedes, though they both see it for the lie that it is.

Still, they exchange smiles as they link arms and step into the alley, where Mor leads her through a couple of turns to one of the busy squares of Velaris.

A burst of sunlight hits her face and she has to shield her eyes against the blinding brightness. But when her vision clears, the sight that greets her takes her breath away.

Fae of all kinds, high and low, old and young, different shapes and sizes and color—are scattered about the square, holding various tools necessary for construction and, even this early in the morning, covered in sweat, paint and grime.

But still bright-eyed. Still standing tall.

The ring of laughter, strong and loud amidst what was once a site of destruction, is as much a symphony to her ears as it is a balm to her frayed nerves. The fume of paint is heavy in the air and almost dizzying in its intensity yet it is nothing compared to the proud smiles that are etched upon the expressions of the citizens of Velaris. She eyes the groups that are mixing buckets of paint and rolling fresh coats of their desired colors onto their walls. When was the last time she had even an inkling of a desire to paint something, _anything?_ Surely, longer than Starfall—the itch to hold onto a paintbrush even longer than that.

(She doesn’t count her time playing spy in the Spring Court, every movement, word and image wrapped in a deception then—even her desire to paint)

The once absent urge to paint, _truly_ paint and not just a wisp of an image, now flares hot and irresistible in her veins. Like a beacon, her gaze is drawn to the lone roller brush nestled innocently amongst the unopened cans of paint and paint trays laid haphazardly in the middle of the square. Perhaps she should have hesitated and reconsidered her presence in the square. She definitely should have never made the venture from the start—her duties call to her, after all.

Yet all it takes is a single heartbeat for the brush to be in her fingers, two to approach a fae and ask if there might be “room for one more set of hands” and just another to dip that brush into a tray of paint— _lub—_ and make an experimental sweep up the length of a wall— _dub._

Her heart beats a thunderous rhythm in her chest but in lieu of the wariness she expects to fill her as she holds the brush aloft, she finds anticipation coiling in her bones. _Excitement_.

“Are you alright, High Lady?”

In this instance, the title makes her blush and automatically she replies, “It’s just Feyre.”

The fae, with yellow-skin and upturned eyes that remind her of Amren save for the soft smile that covers her lips, merely continues with, “I could show you, if you’d like?”

Feyre, heavy with an emotion she cannot place, nods. “Please.”

She’s painted on canvas for sure and on the furniture of their old cottage, but never has she painted walls or storefronts. So she listens and observes with apt attention as the fae, Tyla, instructs her on the basics of wall painting and demonstrates the direction with which she should drag her roller brush, up and down, till her lines form the letter ‘W’ in wide, sweeping strokes.

When she finally does it herself, well. . . she must look a fool, for all she can do at the moment is stare at the lines of paint she’s swabbed upon the wall, at the brush she holds aloft her, and find _wonder_ in how so simple an action can turn another into something different, something so purely made. . . _anew._

And _she_ did that.

So she stays. She stays in the square, with Mor as she runs amok with the village children (causing more mischief than assistance, much to the adults’ amusement and fond exasperation) and with Tyla, Feyre tailing after her and following in her tasks—till every roughened surface is sanded to silky smoothness and every chip and gap is made whole again with the right plaster. Then she paints. She paints one coat to patch up the uneven coloring of the current store’s building materials, two for evenness and three for protection and reinforcement. She paints till she can no longer see the cracks that once lined the walls, as if every stroke of her roller brush brings with it the ability to heal and mend (she ignores the voice within that asks her if she’s still talking about the wall, or is she referring to _herself_ ). She paints till her mind quiets and the brush is nothing but an extension of herself and she paints and she paints and she _paints_.

_Lub._

Paint.

 _Dub_.

Brush.

_Lub._

Stroke.

_Dub._

_Breathe._

It’s probably why she doesn’t notice him till he’s directly behind her. She jumps at his smooth voice whispering silkily at her ear.

“That looks wonderful.”

She lets out an undignified shriek, the hand holding the brush flailing as she reaches up to cup her throat and she squeaks out his name. He laughs.

“Hello, mate.”

He winds an arm around her waist and kisses her brow. She sighs into his embrace. “Hi,” she breathes into the skin of his neck, and they stay just as they are—the noise of the square fading into a dull thrum as they remain wrapped up in each other and they share their day in an exchange privy to just the two of them.

 _What are you doing here?_ She asks.

 _I missed you._ The words are a soft whisper in her mind and she hums in response. His voice is laced in amusement though, when he continues with, _as did the governors, when you didn’t show up at their meeting._

She abruptly pulls away at the words, her eyes wide as saucers when she lets out a curse. Rhys only laughs harder, pulling her close and nuzzling into her neck even as she groans miserably into his shoulder.

“Oh Cauldron, I must have lost track of time! And the governors. . .” She shakes her head. “Are they angry?”

“More worried for you than anything.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s the High Lords of Prythian I’m more concerned about.”

“The High Lords?”

“I thought that the meeting could wait another day, and I told them as much. Beron, of course, threw a fit _._ ” Rhys rolls his eyes again, an action she happily mirrors. She makes a mental note to discuss with her mate their bargain with Eris and his plans to depose his father, later. “Regardless, I told them they were free to carry on without the Night Court present.” She raises her eyebrows expectantly, as if knowing that isn’t the end of it. Her thoughts are confirmed when the look she gives him urges him to divulge, “All right, so maybe I gave them a. . .” he smirks, “ _gentle,_ reminder of who they were dealing with.” An image of the most powerful High Lord in centuries in his true form echoes through her mind, and she shakes her head in exasperation. What she’s come to realize about her mate is that some days, the mask is harder to shake off than other days. He huffs at her look. “What? Like they know what to do with themselves without us!”

He shakes his head then turns to her, a sudden seriousness overcoming his features. “When I heard of my High Lady’s absence, naturally, I was concerned.” _Sorry_ , she whispers sheepishly. He just holds her to him even closer and places a chaste kiss to her neck. _Nothing to forgive._ You _come first. Our family and our court come first. Always,_ is what he says with a warm smile before continuing. “Even if I’d already arrived at the Dawn Court, I was ready to winnow back here, but I figured I should check with Mor first. She told me where you were, what you were doing.”

She frowns. “Why didn’t you just ask me?”

“Your shields were up.” Her eyebrows raise in surprise. “Nothing I couldn’t get through, if I really needed to.” Even as he says it she can feel him there, a gentle hand caressing the walls of her mind that she’s barricaded—quite loosely, now that she’s aware.

“But there was something calm about their presence, peaceful. Like the solitude was a comfort, a way for you to center yourself.” He shrugs, as if the action of leaving her alone when he was probably worrying himself sick isn’t a big deal. “It didn’t feel right to intrude.”

He shifts so that her back is to his front and his arms encircle her. “I’m glad I didn’t.” He rests his chin on her shoulder. “Look at everything you’ve accomplished here, on your own.”

“It’s just paint,” she mumbles, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks at the praise, “and I was hardly alone. . .” But even as she says the words, pride seeps into her veins at the work she’s done, small as it may be, here in the city and with the people that she loves so much.

“I mean it you know, this place looks even better than it did before.” It’s true, the fresh paint of the square glistens beautifully under the afternoon sun. But Feyre thinks it's not so much the look of the buildings but rather, it’s the expressions in everyone’s faces as they, too, admire the square and beam at the storefronts—pride and healing outweighing the exhaustion of a hard day’s work.

“Rita better watch out,” he jokes and they share a laugh, content to let the hustle and bustle of the city pass by them. He entwines their fingers. “You’re painting,” he whispers, his breath hot against the back of her hand as he brushes his lips on a smear of dried paint there. She swallows heavily.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “It felt. . .” she struggles to convey just how much this moment means to her, how burdened she’s felt the past year—trying to fix so much of this broken world when she hasn’t even gotten a moment to catch a breath and _process_. Yet every stroke of the brush felt like a brush on her soul, patching up the parts of her that have been battered and hurt by the events of the war. The closest she could compare it to was—

“Like flying,” she utters, recalling their first ever flight together post-war and the feeling of freedom and hope it had given her—that her promise to the Suriel of building a world that would be better than she left it now, would be fulfilled. Yes, the events in the square that day were ones she’d akin to, “ _healing_.”

“It’s been a hard year,” Rhys says in quiet understanding, the prior assumption (or should they have known it was mere fantasy?) that things would be easier after Hybern left unspoken but weighing heavy in the air between them. She agrees.

“It has, but. . .” She catches Tyla’s eye and the fae gives her a happy wave before bounding over to Mor, who remains engaged with the children but this time accompanied by the remaining paint, drawing figures and colors on the young ones’ faces. Feyre smiles. “I guess I just forgot. . .”

A burst of laughter erupts somewhere in the square and Rhys turns at the catch of her breath. His concern fades when he catches the expression on her face.

Feyre laughs quietly when a group of fae shriek. The children have apparently tired of the art aspect of the day and begun a paint fight amongst themselves, their dreaded next target the older faes. At the head of their assembly stands who else but Mor, the biggest child amongst them—leading her little paint warriors into the fray of adults.

Despite his confusion, his lips melt into a crooked smile. “Forgot what?”

Another ray of yellow sunlight bursts through the clouds and the brick of the square floor glimmers.

“I’ve been so focused on trying to purge all the bad from the world,” But Feyre’s gaze is brighter—like all that is light in this life was born right there, right in her eyes. “I forgot about the part of it that was already good.”

She nods to herself. “I’m going to paint again.”

He grins excitedly. “Yeah?”

“Uh huh. In fact, I’m going to start. . .” a calculating look overcomes her face and it doesn’t occur to him to sift through the bond till it’s too late and she’s shouting, “ _now!_ ”

A bucket of paint appears in Feyre’s hands just as Mor winnows behind him and all at once—

The most powerful High Lord in Prythian, Night given form and Death Incarnate, finds himself soaked all the way through.

With paint.

And nothing so flattering on his color like the violet of his eyes or the jet-black hue of his hair or even the golden brown of his skin. Rather, the two demons have doused him in the most mortifying shade of _green_ paint ever created in all of existence.

Rhys can only stand in shock, the latex already stiffening onto his skin, his _hair_ (thank the Cauldron he didn’t have his wings out), as Mor cackles behind him. Then she saunters, _saunters_ , to his wife’s side.

His wife. His mate, his queen and his equal in every way. . . who is now doubled over laughing her _ass_ off. At _him_.

The High Lady and his cousin are bent at the waist, Mor’s hand on Feyre’s shoulder like she needs the support lest she falls to the ground. She wipes a tear from her eye.

“Oh Feyre, I admit I’ve yet to see any of your paintings but,” she takes one look at Rhys before erupting in giggles again. “But _this_ ,” she hiccups once she catches her breath and makes a sweeping gesture towards Rhys, “has got to be your greatest masterpiece yet!”

Feyre bites her lip. “You’re not wrong.”

His jaw drops. “Brazen, wicked thing.” She waits till he rubs the paint off his eyes to shoot him a feral grin.

 _Strangely,_ he purrs down the bond. _I am both angry and aroused._ Her grin widens. He shakes his head, as if it will dislodge the lustful thoughts circling his brain. He makes a show of command by glaring. Mostly _angry, make no mistake._

“You two, are in _big_ trouble.”

Feyre smirks, outwardly unruffled despite the sizzle of heat that tingles down her spine. “Is the big, bad Illyrian coming out to get us?”

“Oh I’m _so_ scared!” Mor adds, feigning a faint as she leans against Feyre. The two break out in laughter again and Rhys, in annoyance, shakes his head at the pair, causing paint to fly everywhere. The girls hardly flinch, flicking off splatters from their skin as they snicker between themselves and comment about how the green clashes horribly with the wounded look in his eyes, which flash as their teasing only serves to raise his hackles.

He summons his magic, intending to splash them with the paint from his body, when this time his cousin yells, “Attack!” and the kids launch a handful of paint at him.

And, High Lord he may be but Rhys is not ashamed to admit that the girlish shriek heard across the square comes entirely from him as he runs from the pint-sized cavalry, and for his life.

( _Dramatic as always, my lord,_ Feyre teases down the bond)

Just as Rhys manages to free himself from the clutches of the little ones, he launches himself on Feyre who, caught off guard, slips on a small puddle of paint, and though Rhys manages to wrap his arms around her and take the brunt of the fall, the trip down remains as unpleasant as ever.

 _You’re going to pay for this_ , he says. This time, it’s Feyre who says with a purr, _I look forward to it._

At this point, the older faes have joined the brawl—using their magic to build forts and find creative ways to launch paint bombs at each other, much to the children’s (and, admittedly, the adult’s) entertainment.

The square becomes a battlefield—albeit a joyful one—to replace the more horrifying one that took place before because today, they paint a new memory here, onto the walls, the loam and the very foundation of this square.

Rhys, ever the general, commandeers his own battalion of young and older faes and Feyre takes a moment to just stop and appreciate the scene before her as she sees everyone having such a grand time—her family members included, because it seems to hit her over again that there was a time when she could have lost this, lost it _all_.

And the square is a mess, true.

Still, she finds.

It could not have looked any better.

* * *

(That night, Rhys makes good on his promise that she “pay” by using his entire sexual arsenal on her—tongue, fingers, cock, _everything—_ only to pull back just as she reaches the very _brink_.

The blessing—or in this case, the damn curse—with being immortal is that they have the leisure of time, and each fucking _time_ she gets close to completion. . .

The payoff, however, is amazing—when the light of dawn breaks and they chase the shadows from Rhys’ face. It reminds her.

There is no light without darkness.

And her dark, fallen prince is all aglow when he enters her just as she least expects it and brings her to the edge of that golden peak once more. With that one, swift move she shatters around him in an orgasm so powerful.

This time, it is _her_ keening that makes the mountains tremble)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part coming up soon! 
> 
> If you want to cry about all things ACOTAR (which I pretty much do everyday) with me, I'm on tumblr under the same name :)


	2. part ii. brown & blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre has a panic attack and learns how to cope with the help of Cassian. Together, they bond in ways that are fun and cathartic for them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feyre and Cassian brotp galore in this chapter. I love all the friendships on ACOTAR but a special shoutout to these two because I really adored their friend chemistry in the book and how intuitive Cassian is to other people's feelings. (Except his own, lol)

>   ** _I found I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn’t say any other way -- things I had no words for. -Georgia O’Keeffe_**

Despite her earlier declarations, Feyre doesn’t immediately go out and buy herself a canvas and paint supplies.

 _Baby steps,_ she tells herself.

She spends her mornings alternating with Rhys -- meetings with the High Lords, meetings with the palace governors, meetings in the Hewn City and occasionally, a visit to the Illyrian camps where Cassian and Azriel dedicate majority of their time and efforts integrating Illyrian girls into their training and armies.

The work is draining and slow-going, though in her hours of doubt, Feyre reminds herself of the promise she made to the Suriel.

_Leave this world a better place than you found it._

And she wants to. . . _is_ doing so. But, she figures, she can’t exactly achieve that if she’s always dead on her feet.

So when she comes home, her afternoons are consumed by the various plazas of Velaris and helping the people to rebuild the city.

(Though nights spent in Rhys’ arms is her favorite part of her day. It’s a different kind of art that occurs between them, when they make love and colors explode behind her eyelids.)

Wherever she goes she carries with her a sketchbook, only a little bigger than her hand, and in the moments in between -- she sketches.

Nothing so grand as the landscapes and portraits that she used to do in the Spring Court. In fact, the images she scribbles onto her pad are seemingly mundane and insignificant. Sometimes it’s the snowflakes that line the edge of Viviane’s flowing skirt or the flowers that bloom in Elain’s garden in the town house. Other times it’s the rubies that adorn Amren’s neck or, if she’s feeling particularly inspired, the city skyline from the view of the House of Wind’s rooftop. It’s pictures she would akin to the ones she would paint in the cottage on the edge of the woods when she was a human.

(It is a period that feels like a lifetime ago and yet, as fae as she is in appearance, inimitable in power and everlasting in existence, her heart will remain, forevermore, human.

Endlessly and fallibly _human_.)

It’s when she makes her way to the Rainbow that she, as an artist, engages in her biggest undertaking yet. Except it doesn’t really feel like a momentous occasion.

After all. . . she is in the _artists’_ quarters. It’s no surprise that those who dwell here take the rebuilding efforts as an opportunity to, well, _flaunt_ their talents for around her, she sees murals painted over any free and solid space.

So really, it’s more of a natural progression when instead of a roller brush, the residents equip her with paintbrushes of various kinds, thickness and sizes, and paints of countless colors.

In the continent, vandalism or defacing of any kind on public spaces were strictly forbidden and grounds for penitentiary.

But she is not in the continent.

In the Court of Dreams her heart is free to want, and what she wants is to make her mark.

Still, she takes a breath.

It’s her first sojourn to the Rainbow since the attack of Hybern. From her spot in the opening, she can clearly mark in her mind the path she is to take that would lead her to where she had killed the Attor. The memory and the tragedy of the day are as fresh in her mind as the air she breathes in. If she closes her eyes and clenches her fist, the clamor of the artists’ quarters fades and she feels the blade pierce through the leathery skin of that grotesque creature as blood spurts from the wound, staining her hands a dark red, the wind on her face as they spiralled hard and fast towards the ground and the sick thud as the Attor’s body splattered, limp and lifeless onto the--

Stop, she tells herself.

She takes another deep breath.

 _Baby steps_.

She’s eager to dispel the cloud of despair the recollections had brought forth from her and so it’s with an excited grin that she ambles to the pile of materials in front of her and picks up a simple round brush. She is just about to take a stroll to find herself a panel to spruce up when someone calls her name. There is a steady number of people all scattered about and a quiet murmur ripples down the pavement as they turn to her, a murmur that grows into a chorus --

“Feyre!”

“High Lady!”

“Cursebreaker!”

“ _Defender!”_ \-- the last epithet being the loudest amongst them.

The chanting grows as applause joins the cacophony. Feyre freezes when people from the other connected streets begin trickling into the main one and making their way to her. She’s overwhelmed, that much is certain when all she does is stop and stare at the crowd that begins to circle her. They approach her with bright eyes, wide smiles and love and admiration on their lips and she means to return it, to reach out and let them know that she appreciates it, _them_ , all of it.

Her heart begins a staccato beat.

She makes to take the congratulatory, outstretched hand before her except her limbs feel heavy and her palms wet, everything around her becomes slow, like she’s navigating through murky, viscous water. Then the voices surrounding her are no longer voices but the screams of her people dying on the very street because she was too late to save them, the arms encircling her transform to ash arrows tipped in faebane headed straight towards her and she is numb, _paralyzed_.

The edges of her vision blacken so she blinks it away and for a moment she is back in Velaris, enveloped by the artists, _living_ artists, that inhabit the Rainbow. Except the sharp sound of a metal bucket being kicked over reminds her too much of the Cauldron’s keening as it cleaved in three, and the ground shakes beneath her. _What have I done?_ she thinks. _What have I done?_ and again and again and again.

_What have I done? What have I done? What have I done? WhathaveIdonewhathaveIdonewhathaveIdonewhathaveIdo--_

_Feyre?_

An inexplicable sensation pools in the bottom of her gut that has her feeling both hollow and full and, despite her sensible side’s awareness that the dangers have long since passed, a terror so fierce courses through her entire being. But she endeavors to maintain that is safe and she is _home_. The fact that her mate calls for her, his darkness cool and soothing as it glides gently down their bond, is a testament to that.

Yet his voice is so faint, so far away. . .

_FEYRE._

He cries and though she knows it for the bellow that it is, it sounds like nothing but echoes in the outskirts of her mind.

 _Breathe, Feyre,_ his voice is practically a whisper. _I just need you to breathe._

She strains to hear him but what little of his voice does stream into her consciousness  jolts her to attention and she finally grasps the tightness in her chest and the shallowness of her breaths. So she forces herself to take huge gulps of air.

 _Too fast, love,_ Rhys says softly. _Give it four counts as you breathe in and another four when you breathe out._

She recalls the breathing technique as the one that Cassian taught her during their workouts together and she summons that training now as she grapples to gain control of her mind once more.

She breathes in for four counts and as she does so, she scrambles for the link that tethers her to Rhys.

 _I’m here,_ he beckons, his voice a lovely lilt. _Come find me, I’m right here._

She breathes out and Rhys is just a bit clearer in her mind.

 _That’s it,_ he sighs as her breathing starts to slow.

_Rhys?_

_You found me. You’re all right._

She doesn’t realize her eyes are closed till she’s opening them and dozens of pairs of concerned gazes are staring right at her.

“I, I’m so--” she clenches and unclenches her fists to stop them from shaking.

“Are you all right, my Lady?”

No matter how much she owns it, being addressed by her proper title is still a habit she’s not used to so even in her panic-induced state of mind she finds it in herself to reply, “It’s just Feyre.”

Somewhere in her consciousness, Rhys chuckles, and her heartbeat gradually steadies.

It coaxes a small smile from her even as she replies, “No. I don’t think I am.”

 _Cassian is on his way_.

Though she has no idea what for, she says, “I’m so sorry, everyone.”

Just as she finishes, a gust of wind and a tremble of the flagstone underfoot announces her friend’s arrival.

She turns just in time to marvel at the sight of the hulk of a general navigate through a sea of faes he towers over, his wings tucked in tight so as not to accidentally jostle anyone in the face. She’d giggle if her fear wasn’t yet abating and exhaustion wasn’t seizing her every muscle so she grins, weakly, instead as he squeezes himself between two significantly shorter faes.

When he catches the look on her face, he huffs. “Sure, laugh at the one trying to help you out here.”

She shakes her head amusedly. “Hey Cas.”

He reaches her and places a hand at her shoulder. He immediately sobers when he surveys her and notices the clamminess of her skin. “You good?”

She takes a moment to assess herself. The sweat that glides down the slope of her back is cold yet her blood runs hot beneath her skin, like she could shoot straight to the sun if she spread her wings that very moment. But there’s a gnawing in her belly that keeps her anchored to the ground and has her limbs feeling cumbersome and heavy.

And she is tired, _drained_ even. Had she been human, she’s positive she would be passed out that very second but she thanks the Cauldron for her fae strength -- the only reason she can even walk much less stand. Still, she does not feel wholly all right, her emotions turbulent and ugly in her brain that her only thought is, she doesn’t want to be _seen_ as she is. She merely looks at Cassian, her eyes wide and open and as if reading her thoughts, he shoos the onlookers with a “don’t you have work to do?” and the crowd begins to dissipate, leaving lingering and curious looks behind them.

He turns to her. “Should we go home?”

She nods and, too sluggish to winnow or fly but still quite restless from the dwindling adrenaline, they begin the walk back when Feyre places a hand on his arm. “Wait.”

“What’s wrong?” She frowns at the concern on her friend’s face. “Nothing,” she shakes her head. “Actually, there _is_ something I need to do first.” He raises his eyebrows in question and she smiles, if a bit sheepishly. “Will you. . . will you help me?”

It’s like his whole countenance softens at the inquiry, tension melting away as his shoulders loosen and his playful grin returns.

With seemingly every ounce of his enthusiasm wrapped around his response of, “ _Of course!_ ” he puts an arm around her shoulders and gives her an affectionate squeeze. “What exactly do you need help with?”

“Mostly housework.” she pauses. _“And_ art work.”

“Count me in! I mean,” and his voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper, “I know this body itself is a masterpiece but, no nude portraits all right? I don’t think Rhysand will appreciate it.” He shudders. _“Or_ your sister, for that matter.” She doesn’t need to ask which sister he’s referring to. An impish grin crosses his lips. “Then again, maybe she _would_ be apprecia--”

She shoves him before he can finish the thought. “You’re an idiot.”

“A really _fit_ idiot,” he returns with a rakish grin.

“An idiot nonetheless.”

He shrugs. “You know what they say about beauty,” he pauses for dramatic effect and Feyre rolls her eyes. A child -- she is friends with a _child_. “It’s in the eye of the most good-looking one in the room.”

Case in point. “I don’t think that’s how it goes.”

He waves a flippant hand in dismissal.“Semantics.”

She shakes her head in feigned besetment. “Come on oh Wise and Humble One,” she links her arm with his. “I’ve got materials to gather and you’re,” she pats a muscled forearm, “going to help me carry them.”

They make it a few paces when Cassian stops her this time. “Feyre, what happened earlier. . .” she sucks in a sharp breath. “I just want you to know that I get it.”

“You do?”

In lieu of a response, he nods towards a nearby café. “I don’t know about you but I’m starving. Lunch?” There remains the leaden weight in her stomach but she’s about to voice her acquiescence anyway when his stomach releases an obstreperous grumble. There’s a beat of astonishment at the sound, resounding as it is with their fae hearing, before they erupt in laughter.

“I guess that answers that question,” she mutters teasingly under her breath, a tone Cassian chooses to ignore as they make their way to the tables beneath the charming cobalt-colored awning of the bistro. He did _say_ he was famished.

When their food arrives, there is naught but the sounds of clinking utensils and the customary racket of a marketplace drifting in the silence between them. Faes wander the streets and heckle customers into entering their kitschy boutiques or purchasing their wares. Music spills from one of the winding avenues and onto the pavement beneath her feet as a musician weaves a blithe tune with a syrinx. The Rainbow teems with life and Feyre looses herself in the vibrancy of the scenery.

But a glance across the table at her friend tells a different story, evident as it is in the tautness to his muscles and the tension that lines his mouth -- lips and brows bowed in a frown. A wall of iron shutters his eyes and banishes their light as thousands of stories, raw and sorrowful, flash before them. She is all too reminded then of her youth, that despite all she’s been through, she is but a child compared to her friend. She can only imagine what he could have possibly been through, sure that what Rhysand told her of their time in the Illyrian camp merely a blip in his, by then, already long life.

When he turns to her, she offers him an encouraging smile and a bit of that light bleeds back into his eyes.

“Will you tell me about what happened to me earlier?” she gulps, recalling the fear that seized her bones and rooted her in place. “What was _that?_ I’ve never felt anything like it before, except. . .” _Except when I held the Cauldron and it trapped me in place._

The bond between Rhysand and her flares in response to the thought. Rhys’ soothing darkness wraps around her mind, calming the onslaught of memories that threaten to drown her. It is a comfort, that though he isn’t there with her physically, she will never have to bear her pain alone.

Cassian allows her to trail off without question, in tune as he always is with her feelings, and for that she is ever grateful. The gratitude is replaced with worry when an air of aloofness overcomes the Illyrian as he explains the nature of her circumstance.

“You had a panic attack. It occurs when your body experiences an overwhelming feeling of fear and anxiety. Triggers for such episodes are often sporadic but not wholly unpredictable. . .”

He continues to list off facts with a clinical detachment so unlike Cassian, she’s tempted to duck under the table or summon her magic to drop the glamour and reveal the _real_ Cassian, as if he’s just hid behind some nearby corner.

But she likes to think she knows her friend better than that, so she simply places a hand on his forearm and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“Cas,” she says soothingly, a touch of concern in her tone when she notices his skin is clammy where she’s touching him. “Whatever it is that’s bothering you about this, you know you can just. . . _talk_ to me, right?”

In all fairness, Cassian doesn’t outright deny his discomfort, but -- as she’s come to learn -- nothing ever worthwhile comes _easy._ So.

They engage in a staring contest.

One that she wins with aptly maneuvered raised eyebrows and cultivated I-am-your-High-Lady glares that has him deflating all together in a matter of _seconds_. She tries not to be too smug about it but judging by the glacial expression on his face, she fails. She schools her features into an innocent one instead then gestures for him to proceed.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

He heaves a long breath, his wings rippling with the motion, before dropping his shoulders and leaning back in his chair, affecting an air of nonchalance that must have infuriated his superiors when he was still but a foot soldier in the army. Once again, she’s reminded that the male before her is a general and, joking aside, has commanded armies by the thousands with a power nearly equal to Rhysand and possesses a kill count with that number to match.

It’s with that thought that she realizes, “You used to have them.”

“I still do.”

“No.”

Amusement flickers briefly on his face at her denial. She can’t help it -- she has a hard time reconciling the image of the unflappable general before her with the immovable wreck that she was earlier.

He runs a hand through his chin-length hair. “It’s not exactly something I advertise.”

She shakes her head.

Even in the face of defeat, Cassian has never yielded. He’d spat in the face of Death, twice in the time she’s known him -- an occurrence that has undoubtedly cropped up in his past and is likely to do so again should the occasion for it rise. He is steel forged in fire.

But even steel bends.

“How? _When?_ ”

He gives her an appraising look. “I’m sure Rhys has told you all about my life by now.”

She shakes her head. “The bare bones more like, and only if he needs to. For everyone.”

He exhales, as if relieved. “That sounds like him,” he murmurs. “Well, do you know about the Blood Rite, at least?”

She nods.

He directs his gaze towards the street then, but she can tell he is somewhere else entirely -- a place she cannot reach and one only he can see.

“We fought to be in the Blood Rite, did you know?” She did. “To be in that--that, _stupid_ tradition and for what, to prove who could be the strongest? The most ruthless? Most _bloodthirsty?_ ” He laughs, though the sound couldn’t be farther from amusement. Then he stops so abruptly that the silence becomes jarring. With eerie calmness, he continues. “The only thing I proved that day was that I would do anything, _anything,_ to protect the ones I cared about, even kill -- cause that’s exactly what I did that day. I killed my first, my second, my third. . .”

His eyes glaze and she doesn’t need to use her _daemati_ powers to sense that he is entrenched in painful memories. She knows what it is to look at your clean and washed hands yet still see the way the blood of those lives you took continue to be drenched in it, that for every life you take, deserved or not, a part of you is taken too. In his eyes, she sees the parts of his soul that have splintered because the jagged edges match hers, and Rhys’ and Nesta’s and Elain’s and Amren’s -- them all.  

“I stole away all those lives but _I don’t regret it,_ not a single one. Because those bastards deserved it,” an inferno blazes in his orbs and there is fire in his words, as if daring her to judge him. “And because it brought me back to my _family_.”

Except there’s no judgement but understanding in her hold, when she looks at him and takes his hand in hers.

The rigidity in Cassian’s posture fades and the fire extinguishes from him as he loses a breath, giving her an answering squeeze before letting go.

“That’s when it started?” She asks softly and he responds with a clipped nod. “They haven’t stopped since, although,” he hurries to reassure her when it looks as if she’s ready to burst from concern, “not as often and certainly not as long as they used to be. It was way worse before. . .”

He proceeds to recount how he would get panic attacks before _and_ after battles -- how he would be overcome by a sinking feeling in his gut, coupled with a mounting terror that gripped his entire body and rendered him immovable. He was only thankful that he had the presence of mind to bring himself away from his fellow soldiers or from the eye of his superiors each time, not that he could control the frequency of their occurrences then. In fact, he had no idea what was even happening to him, only that he could not, _would_ not, let anyone not close to him see him in such a state of weakness.

She looks at him, her mouth agape in absolute awe and wonder. “How. . . how do you get through them?”

He smiles, the softest and most tender she’s ever seen Cassian. She tucks the image in the part of her mind filled with all the blank canvases she has yet to bring to life. _Steel Warrior,_ she’d call it.

“I remind myself that my friends are well and alive, in order to calm down. The thought of them kept me going, _keeps_ me going and the list only continues to grow.” He rolls his eyes and gives her a pointed look which leaves little room to doubt that she, along with her sisters, are the expansion to the list. She laughs because she knows his exasperation is in jest. “As well as those breathing exercises I taught you.”

Her mouth forms a small ‘o’ as Rhysand’s instructions to her from earlier come to mind.

“The others know, then.”

Cassian lets out an annoyed groan though his cheeks are tinged pink. “I can never fucking keep anything from Rhys. The moment he found out he took me straight to Madja. She was the one to explain it to me, to all of us. I’d have been embarrassed, but Rhys is such a mother hen and Az was being all intense so I figured I’d let them fuss if it meant they’d feel better, nevermind that _I_ was actually the patient in question.” Another roll of his eyes but she can see the smile that threatens to stretch his lips, so she smiles wide enough for the both of them. It is short lived however, when she notices his shoulders tense once more.

“I’ve gotten better at managing it over the years. The last one that was really bad was. . . it was about 52 years ago, then again after Hybern. And you know all about that.” -- of course, when the High Lord had tethered the Inner Circle to Velaris and the quiet that settled in Cassian’s mind in the absence of Rhys, the same kind he had told her about in the immediate aftermath of the events in Hybern. It’s all too clear now, why he had to be sedated, not just to save his wings but to save _him._

He glances away. “It’s funny. . . as the bastard son of an Illyrian Lord, I had to fight for everything my entire life. Being dumped into that mountain for the Blood Rite should have been nothing -- another day, another battle. I should have been used to it. And all the camp lords and the generals would go on about how glorious it all was, ‘an honor’ even. That’s why it took so much to convince them to participate -- two bastards and a half-blood, no matter how powerful, weren’t _worthy_.” The last word is spat out like a curse. She’s inclined to agree, her face twisting in a sneer when she recalls every time she’s seen Devlon speak to Cassian without an ounce of respect. She’s about to voice her thoughts when she sees his shoulders sag, his hair a limp curtain around his bowed head. He trembles.

“Perhaps there is some honor to be found in a battle fairly won. But there’s nothing fair or honorable about war. There’s no glory to be found in taking a life, enemy or ally, not for me at least.

“It’s just another stain on my soul I’ll never be rid of.”

He sighs. “I am War Commander of the Night Court Army, yet I do not enjoy war. Some general, right?” A chuckle escapes him, an acrid, broken sound. “What a laugh.”

She opens her mouth to protest but he waves her off, like he didn’t just drop a bomb of information on her. “So anyway, it’s like I said, it’s not so bad now. In fact, I can even help you--”

“Stop it,” she whispers. “You don’t get to make light of this. You don’t get to brush this off.” She shakes her head. “You have no idea how strong you are, do you?”

He flexes his muscles in jest. “I’m pretty sure I do.”

She resists the urge to punch him. Her temper must show on her face because he raises his hands in a show of both surrender and apology.

She wants to say more. She wants to _gush_ more like, as if to make up for her obliviousness by plying him with compliments. Not that he would graciously accept them, she recognizes a front when she sees one. For all his humor and posturing, to say he was hurting underneath would be a gross understatement -- understandable, given everything he’s been through and all that he’s revealed to her. She just never realized how deep that hurt went nor did she fully comprehend the great pains he took to hide it. She doesn’t know if she should hug him or smack him for it -- it seems to be a problem amongst the Inner Circle, the inability to be completely direct with their feelings till pain of death forces it out of them. But life or death situations are, thankfully (hopefully), behind them so they’re trying, all of them.

Besides, words are not the only form of expression.

In lieu of any violent or saccharine tendencies, Feyre looks at him with no shortage of affection when she says, “You’re a great leader and an even greater friend.” She dips her chin to catch his eye. “Don’t sell yourself short, Cassian.”

Knowing this is all he’s willing to take, she doesn’t wait for a reply. Merely leaves enough currency to cover their meal and a generous tip before rising from her seat. She throws him a questioning glance. “Does the offer of assistance still stand?”

There’s a hint of red to his cheeks, but the veil of despondency has left his eyes. It’s wonderful for Feyre to see it replaced by gratefulness and that glimmer of overexcitement and mischievousness that always seems to encapsulate Cassian’s every look and movement. He stands and with a crack of his knuckles, turns to her, a wide grin plastered on his face.

“Lead the way.”

* * *

Nesta and Elain have long since moved from the townhouse and bought their own dwellings with the wages Rhysand so generously pays them and so Feyre is free to turn her old bedroom into an art room. Cassian, true to his word, helps her out.

Unlike her art room in the Spring Court, this time Feyre has a hand at not just filling the room with paintings, but with _everything._

The sun is just about to sink below the horizon when Rhysand walks into a minefield made up of Feyre’s old furniture.

“Feyre?” He calls out with a modicum of bewilderment.

Her head immediately pops out of her old bedroom. “You’re home!”

Before he can muster up a reply, she is barrelling into him, all long limbs and tangled hair and swelling of paint and sweat and, he notes with relief, elation. He smiles.

“I see you’ve been busy,” he remarks once he’s released from her hug though he doesn’t stray far, his hand trailing down her arm to entwine their fingers. She kisses his cheek. “How are you?”

“Tired,” he admits. “Though I’m glad to be home.” He tilts his head in the direction of her room. “Is that Cassian in there?”

“Hello, brother!”

“Hello. . .” Rhys calls back, more out of reflex than polite greeting. He turns to Feyre, eyebrows raised in bewilderment. “Why won’t he come out?”

She bites her lip, as if to contain her laughter and rather cryptically replies, “He’s a little busy.” She tugs at their joined hands. “Why don’t you see for yourself.”

Together, they weave through chairs, dodge wayward lamps and hop over planks of wood that must have once composed the bed with laughter on their lips before they reach the nearly shut door.

When Feyre nudges it ajar, the sight that greets him astounds him.

The once white walls have now been replaced with a blue, so deep it’s nearly violet. It reminds him of Velaris at night, when the last of the sun’s light touches the skies and the heavens clear for the stars to spill out. Sure enough, the sun sinks below the horizon and what little light reaches the window from the outside and that from the roaring fireplace, touches the wall. It flares to a blazing indigo.

Noticing his look of utter awe, Feyre gives him a playful nudge. “It reminds me of your eyes.” Her mouth takes the beatific form of her smile and, as he’s helplessly wont to do each time he is witness to her happiness, he feels his heart skip a beat and he’s mesmerized.

A throat clears, rather loudly, somewhere to his left and that’s when he manages to tear his eyes away from Feyre (much to her amusement) to marvel at the peculiar sight of Cassian on all fours and hunched over the skirting board. Even more amazing is the firm grip he has on the paintbrush as he fills in the space directly atop the baseboard.

Feyre expects Rhysand to start teasing the general but there’s a calculating look on his face as he appraises their friend. A bead of sweat trickles from Cassian’s forehead to the corner of his eye yet he pays it no mind, focused as he is on his task. Rhysand turns to her after a moment, a look of astonishment on his face.

_What is it?_

_I haven’t seen him so. . ._ relaxed. Surprise colors his tone and he struggles with the word, as if the act of leisure in relation to Cassian is so unheard of, it’s practically a  foreign concept. _Not even before I left for Under the Mountain._

She eyes the tremble in Cassian’s arm as he steadies his hand to paint the horizontal length of the molding. She looks at her mate with more than a modicum of disconcertion.

_I think you mixed up the meaning of relaxed again._

Rhysand rolls his eyes but the corner of his mouth ticks up in amusement. He addresses Cassian.

“I’m famished. I’m going to the kitchens to see what Nuala and Cer have whipped up. Do you want anything?”

Cassian lets out a noncommittal shrug and it’s apparently all the response he needs because Rhysand makes his way to the door.

“You coming, Feyre, darling?”

_What is happening?_

_Humor me._

She shrugs. “I could use a bite to eat.” She walks towards Rhysand but hesitates at the door. She glances at Cassian. “You sure you don’t want anything, Cas?” she asks, an inexplicable anxiousness to her voice.

“I’m good.”

When they reach the kitchens, Rhysand waves the shadow sisters away and offers to take over dinner preparations so they could have an early night for themselves. They accept, gratuitous appreciation spilling from their lips before they shadow away to their own quarters.

Rhysand navigates the kitchen with an ease that she envies. This is something they did together, after the war -- try to learn how to cook, _try_ being the operative word. Suffice it to say, her mate is charged with food preparation when it calls for it while skinning animals, boiling water and heating soup pretty much sums up the extent of her culinary skills.

She helps as best as she can though her mate mostly delegates her into setting their table and preparing the serving platters for when he’s finished cooking. With nothing to do but wait and mindful of Cassian’s presence, she continues their conversation.

 _I don’t get it,_ she starts, _what exactly was it about him that screamed, ‘relaxed’ to you? I mean, he refused our offer to eat. Cassian -- said no, to_ food! She shakes her head because the act of Cassian not joining them for a meal is just that baffling to her. _He never says no to food._

 _Exactly,_ Rhys shoots her a pointed look. _Darling, I should tell you that as you grow into your_ daemati _powers, you’ll find yourself becoming more attuned to other people’s presence and, should you grow fond of them, their emotions as well. You won’t even have to enter their minds, it’s kind of like a feeling or,_ he pauses, searching for the right words, _it’s_ intuition _. And it gets stronger the closer you are to a person. Now I’ve known Cassian for what feels like my entire existence -- it’s as if I can’t even imagine what life was before I met him and Azriel so believe me when I say, something in him has shifted._

_And you think it has something to do with the painting?_

_Partly yes,_ Rhys serves their meal but instead of taking a seat, he moves her chair to face him as he kneels before her, hands caressing her thighs all the way to the back of her knees in less of a seduction and more of affection. He levels her with a gaze full of awe and inspiration, all tender eyes and soft, smiling lips. _But I think it has more to do with_ you. He makes a slow path from her knee to the side of her thigh, till he’s entwined their fingers on one hand. _You have to know how much you mean to him, to_ all _of us._

Touched beyond words, she runs her free hand through his locks, the silky strands of them slipping through her fingers before trailing them along the apple of his cheeks in a gentle caress. She wants to tell him that she feels exactly the same way -- how she was so, so lost before he not just gave her but _showed_ her how to carve a better way for herself, how her days are brimming with love and laughter and appreciation thanks to their friends, their _family_ , that she was paralyzed before he taught her how to be a dreamer, that she’s thankful that they all accepted her and her sisters as a part of their family, that he inspires her everyday to want believe, not just in him, them and the future they want to build for the next generation of dreamers, but in herself as well, that thanks to him, she found a way to set herself free -- but too many words struggle to break free from the tangle in her throat.

He sighs, and there’s sorrow in his eyes when he brushes his knuckles along her cheek.  _ I’m sorry I couldn’t be there sooner. I’m sorry that I’m always too late. _

She shakes her head. _ You’re always with me, whether we’re strangers or lovers, human or fae, alive or dead.  _

_ Sounds ominous. _

She rolls her eyes but she can see the way his face contorts sharply in reminder. She shakes her head, a fond smile shaping her lips as she recalls Cassian’s heartfelt confession.  _ Besides, I believe I was exactly with who I needed to be in that moment. _

She brings their clasped hands towards her lips and lays a long, sweet kiss upon the back of Rhysand’s hand in thanks, because who else would have thought to send the perfect person but him? He exhales shakily, his cool breath brushing delicately across her skin as she rests her forehead atop his and with everything she can’t express, she thinks perhaps her mate has heard her after all.

They stay, locked in that moment just a minute more, before she slowly lets go. They share a smile, a conversation in their eyes when she grabs another plate. She distributes the food and with a tilt of her head, she and Rhysand return to the art room where Cassian appears to be putting the final flourishes for the baseboard.

When she enters, she catches herself before she drops their platters in jubilation and subsequently erupts in applause. Cassian, unaware of her presence, turns at the sound of her clapping, siphons glowing in the light of dusk before altogether disappearing at the sight of his High Lady’s enthusiasm and his High Lord’s arms laden with food. He grins.

“Food!” He shouts excitedly just as Feyre exclaims, “Amazing!”

To the couple’s surprise, Cassian turned beet red at the praise when any other time he would have preened at the attention. He scratches at the hair on the nape of his neck before squaring his shoulders and crossing his arms. He gives Feyre a playful nudge as they stand side by side in front of the last finished wall, Rhysand behind them and silent as shadows as he observes the pair. “I’m a regular artist, don’t you think?” Cassian says in a teasing manner though she could detect the underlying sheepish tone. She gives him an appraising look.

“Yes,” she whispers. “You are.”

Cassian merely shrugs off her response. Though she doesn’t miss the calculating look on his face as he surveys the wall before them, the wall he worked on all on his own, with a proud and quietly awed look of accomplishment on his face. He shakes his head as if to shake him from his stupor, before making a beeline for the food. He and Rhysand argue over food proportions as Cassian heaps a mountainous serving of food onto his plate. Feyre joins them after a beat, an idea forming in her head. Rhysand throws her a smile.

_Looks like you have your first student._

She doesn’t have his same confidence but it turns out her doubt was for naught, because here in her finished art room, she stands before a work of art -- one that is not of her own making, but proud of it all the same. Her cheeks hurt from all the smiling she’s done since Cassian declared he was finished with his first painting (after only a week of lessons!).

At his intense stare, she asks, “What is it?”

“It’s just, it was so. . . _blank._ And now it’s not.”

Amused, she replies, “That is, generally, how paintings tend to work.”

She gets a hard shove for that one but she doesn’t mind, not when they’re both laughing so hard. When she regains her balance and their chortles simmer down, a calm silence blankets the pair as they regard his work.

“I thought all it took to paint was a brush and some colors. I’m surprised at how much thought had to be put into it -- the combination of colors to use, the kind of brush, the angle of your wrist -- all so you can bring this image in your head alive except it’s not just an image, is it? It’s a part of you you’re leaving on a canvas that isn’t really a canvas anymore but something else, something you’ve shaped -- something you’ve _made_ and. . . do you know what I mean?”

She looks at him, or rather, she looks at his hands -- rough with years of hard work, calluses in places a weapon would fit -- hands that have killed. Then she looks at the explosion of color before her, the gentle consideration she can see in every stroke and the deliberateness in every hue, looks at the hands who made them. She smiles at him.

“Yes,” she knows a thing or two about beginning anew.

She doesn’t say the last thought aloud but when he looks back at her and returns her grin, she thinks he might read the answer on her face anyway.

Later that night, she catches Cassian just as he’s about to fly back to his apartment, his painting covered and bound for a safe journey home. She walks him out, a solemnity trailing their footstep, and when they reach the door, they share a look. No words are exchanged and she understands what Rhysand means about her _daemati_ powers and growing attuned to other people’s feelings. A conversation passes between them in that one encompassing look -- friendship, affection, humor, accomplishment, pride, gratitude and more than anything, _healing._

She thinks about how Cassian encases himself in steel in order to combat his weaknesses -- a battle against a terrorizing nation or a battle against his own body when assailed with a panic attack. And sure, perhaps steel bends.

Yet as he flies away, his work of art clutched tightly, lovingly, in his hands, of one thing she is absolutely certain when it comes to Cassian, to herself, to Rhysand and the entire Court of Dreams -- they might bend under the crippling weight of a world that thrives in darkness.

But they will never break.


End file.
